Heathcote spend a miserable afternoon, letting his misfortune and Pledge’s words rankle in his breast till he hated the very name of Dick and goodness.
In due time the three fishers returned that evening tired with their hard day’s work, and bronzed with the sun and breeze.
Dick looked serious and anxious as he followed his seniors into the Quadrangle, carrying the ulsters and the empty luncheon basket.
“Ah,” thought Heathcote, as he watched him from a retired nook, “he’s ashamed of himself. He well may be.”
The two seniors turned in at Westover’s door, leaving Dick to continue his walk alone.
Now was Heathcote’s time. Emerging from his corner he put his hands carelessly in his pockets and advanced to meet his former friend, whistling a jaunty tune.
He was half afraid Dick might not see him, but Dick had a quick eye for a friend, and hailed him half across the Quadrangle.
“Hullo, Georgie, old man!” said he, running up. “So awfully sorry you couldn’t come on our spree too. What’s the matter?”
What, indeed? Georgie, with an elaborate air of unconsciousness either of the voice or the presence of his comrade, walked on looking straight in front of him and whistling more jauntily than ever.
Dick stood for a moment aghast. He would fain have believed his chum had either not seen him or was joking. But a sinking at his heart told him otherwise, and a rush of anger told him that whatever the reason might be it was an unjust one.